I wait in anticipation for her return the rest of the service, but she never comes back.
Church ends and I file out with the Laake family, wondering what caused the female voice. Can I really be sure I heard a voice—and didn’t just imagine it? We enter the parking lot of the church, and I trip, catching myself with my hands, my face close to the pavement. Jamal and Kwame help me to my feet and I try not to make eye contact, because I’m fine and tripping is normal. Jamal starts laughing, though he tries to suppress it. He knows I hate being laughed at, that it hurts more than being hit or falling down.
“Dude, you okay?” Jamal says. I get the feeling that Jamal is sincere in his concern.
I nod curtly and walk ahead of Jamal and his parents. A moment later, Kwame pats me on the back and keeps in stride. Jamal takes the right side and tells me if I fall again, he can catch me. I feel like telling him to fuck off, but we’re close to the church and I don’t want lightning to hit me. Plus, his parents would be highly offended and I love them dearly.
We get in the car and buckle in. Kwame takes it easy driving out of the church parking lot, which has staff in yellow vests like at a big sporting event.
I can’t help but wonder what the voice was in church. I don’t hear it now, so it must have been something exclusive to the church, right? Perhaps that’s the spirit everyone listens to there?
“Are you all right, Colin?” Leilani says, and I come unwillingly out of the maze of my thoughts.
“I’ll manage,” I say, though I feel confused and out of sorts.
“You tripped. This okay. Happens to everyone,” Kwame says. He merges with traffic on the I-17 North.
“No worries, man.” He pats me on the leg. “You’re not hurt, are you?” Jamal says.
“I’m fine, I think.”
“You don’t sound like yourself.”
I don’t feel right at all, as if the world around me is a dream. Traffic races by on the freeway and it’s all I can do to distract myself by staring out the window. “I’m not quite right. Maybe I’m tired.”
“You’re studying too hard,” Jamal says.
“Could be. My head hurts,” I say to the window. Silence passes for several minutes among the four of us in the car. I try not to think about the voice from church, but it’s like a song that’s stuck in my head.
Leilani breaks the silence; her eyes meet mine. “So did the spirit speak to you, Colin?”
Is that what she is? Must be. I didn’t know the spirit speaks to people like that.
“I don’t know,” I say, as I can’t think of anything else to say that would avoid explanation and I don’t feel like talking about how crazy this is. And I ought to have the story straight before I go blabbing.
She smiles. “The heart has to be right to hear Him. I think if you earnestly seek after Jesus, He will speak to you.”
Him? The Spirit is a Him? Hmm. Perhaps the voice only sounded feminine, but is actually…male? An all-powerful being can sound any way it wants. If the spirit wanted to sound like a woman for my sake, it could be done. But then, why the deception?
Does Leilani know of Christel—could she hear the same voice? Perhaps she can explain something, but there’s no way to approach the subject without great risk.
“So what time does the game start?” I ask Jamal, for something new to talk about.
“One.”
“Are we going to watch any of it?”
Jamal shrugs. “Maybe. Lots of people will be at the house.”
My head naturally jerks in his direction. “Meaning?”
He laughs a little. “It’s a small party, Colin. Some friends. It’s called socializing. You might like it.”
“I do enough of that.”
“Your books see you more than anybody else. Take some time off. It will do you some good. It’s summer break.”
“I won’t survive the semester if I don’t prep now.”
“Sure you will. Besides, Natalie is going to be there.”
“Huh?”
He presses his knuckles against my shoulder. “It’s your chance, tiger. No fear.”
“Easy for you to say.” I brush him off.
“She’s like a sister to me,” Jamal says flatly. “If she’s going to be with anyone, might as well be you.”
“Are you playing wingman here?”
“I’ll give it my best shot, just as long as you hold up your end. Can’t chicken out. Deal?”
I inhale and hold it for several seconds, determined to keep it together. Anxiety sets in and it’s here to stay, like the time before a speech in front of a packed school auditorium. The need to urinate hits and fifteen minutes at the minimum stand between me and the bathroom. I shift side to side in my seat and hope for the best. I can get through this.
“Deal. But you have to help me,” I say.
“Just be yourself, man. And don’t talk about any academic subjects. She loves baseball; that should be a good start.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“You’ll do just fine, Colin,” Leilani says, joining in.
A smile makes it to my face. “Thanks, I guess.”
Jamal does his best to distract me by talking about irrelevant things and I wipe the sweat off my palms. When he can see that’s failing, he asks about my summer class load, as if he’s dying to know. None of it works. It’s all I can do to keep from shaking.
I’m not commonly around girls my age; Wheaton is an all-boys school, so practice is rare. Jamal, attending the public school, gets practice for both of us.
I met Natalie Merian a year ago and it’s been torture since. She has long, dark hair, beautiful hazel eyes, and curves that bring it all together. She lives about a mile away, but those five thousand, two hundred eighty four feet feel like we’re worlds apart.
Jamal and Leilani work hard at distracting me the rest of the drive. I make a run for the front door to hit the bathroom, thankful it’s unlocked. The alarm chirps the single beep, indicating the countdown until it gets real loud inside. Jamal calls after me when I finish, to help him setup drinks, tables, and chairs. People start arriving, not in droves, but a family at a time and they enter through the side gate like it’s home. Jamal introduces me to a few people, but I forget their names instantly. My world becomes a blur.
And the next thing I know, Natalie is standing a few paces away from me with no one to talk to.
She likes you, Christel says, her voice sounding as sensual as in church and I attempt to leap through the ceiling. Natalie looks around, as though waiting for someone.
Sweat trickles down my side underneath my polo. She still hasn’t noticed me, or does well at pretending not to.
She wants to talk to you.
Fantastic. First Jamal trying to play matchmaker, now a ghost is doing the same? Whatever this mysterious thing is, how does it know what Natalie wants?
I suppose talking to her is a good idea. Maybe that will stop my crazy thinking for a while. My feet cooperate on a limited basis. I manage to get a word out, which sounds something like hello. She smiles back, as if relieved—I get the sense that she’s happy to see me.
“So, Jamal tells me you love the D-Backs,” she says.
I grin at her, I think, but can’t be sure. It may come across as some goofy smile and give away what a dork I am. I try to relax and act natural, though I am freaked out completely. “Yeah…I like them. Two-game lead, in first. Long way to go, though.”
“They played well against the Dodgers who are off to a slow start this year.”
“You’re a real fan? I mean, you follow baseball?”
“Love the game.” She fidgets. “I’m on the team, you know.”
It occurs to me that she’s on the high school team, plays second base, as if I simply remembered it. This knowledge has the fingerprints of Christel and the oddness is unsettling and is distracting from the conversation. A test is necessary here, using a safe question. “So you play…second base?”
Her eyes light up and she steps toward me. “Oh, so you know I play. Duh. Sorry.” She fiddles with her hair—a nervous twitch. She plays baseball—a fact I didn’t know before—so I must be learning about her as we go. Maybe this is telepathy.
“It’s fine, really. I bet you’re good at it.” My face heats up after the words leave. Can I be cornier than this?
“Don’t tell me you’re gonna talk baseball without me.” Jamal stands beside me, a slap on the back, to let me know he has it.
The party gathered at the Laakes’ home is mostly from church, very few teenagers in attendance. Two are talking by themselves outside in the yard. The rest stand here.
“We’re talking National League,” Natalie says, waving a finger between her and me.
“Lame. Like a JV league to the American.”
He gets a snicker out of Natalie, who pretends to take it personally. “Just more juice,” she says in retort.
“Envy.”
“Can I get you a drink?” I ask Natalie, cutting off the sports feud between two people who fight like siblings while remaining friends.
Jamal grins at me. Jamal thinks you’re on the right track. A little confidence goes a long way.
“Sure,” Natalie says. She wants a Dr Pepper
“What do you want?”
“Surprise me.” A hint of optimism shines in her eyes. Jamal just nods back at me. I know what he wants and nothing needs to be said. A moment later, I return with two Pepsis for Jamal and me, and a Dr. Pepper for Natalie, who is excited by the choice.
“How did you know to bring me Dr. Pepper?”
“You look like a Dr. Pepper kind of girl,” I say, and immediately feel warmth fill my face.
Jamal laughs and excuses himself, unable to contain his hysteria. Natalie blushes a little.
Laugh all you want, wingman.
I follow Natalie to the barstools at the counter and take a seat with her to talk. We chat awhile about baseball and our predictions for the All-Star game while tearing into a sub sandwich. As time goes on, I become more comfortable around her, but have a ways to go before I feel like myself. Then she asks about the latest trade to the Celtics. I try hard not to cringe at the mention and wish she’d stuck with baseball.
“I don’t follow the Celtics, really,” I admit, looking away from her at nothing in particular.
“Your dad’s…like a legend with them. I thought…you’d be a big fan,” she says.
Thanks for the reminder about my father. Just in case I forgot.
“Yeah, that’s kinda why I don’t pay any attention to them. Have an entire room enshrined to the team and see how that feels.”
Then Christel clouds my mind again. She’s offended at your response. Recovery is needed. She’s right; Natalie couldn’t know I don’t share any love for my father’s former team.
“Sorry…I got mad. I just don’t love living in my father’s shadow. He casts an impossible-to-live-up-to-standard for me. Everyone thinks it must be cool to have a famous dad who knows tons of famous people, but it’s not all that,” I say. Then, Christel chimes in. She doesn’t understand and never will. Move on.
But I want her to understand. Natalie’s smart; she can figure it out if I just explain myself. “For a guy without a vertical jump, it’s impossible to have Dad’s attention. That’s what makes it hard. Always a disappointment,” I say.
She smiles back sweetly. It’s fine that she doesn’t understand, as no one really does. Drop it, Colin.
Ask her if she’s coming to the baseball game tonight. “So are you coming to the game tonight?” I say, and then wish to take it back. The game tonight is a crucial play-off for my and Jamal’s team, so pressure is on. Natalie in the stands would multiply the intensity for me one hundred times over.
She grins and nods, as if she just decided. “I’ll be there with some friends.”
She’s going to the game because you asked.
Why did I just go and add tons of pressure to myself?
She finishes her Dr. Pepper and sets the plastic bottle on the counter. Her eyes meet mine and we sit in silence, just watching, trying to get comfortable, and as strange as this feels, in this moment, as thoughts gather—some of which are not mine—I accept the truth. Not because I understand it—far from it. But I know Christel is telling me her thoughts. And more so, this ghost is helping me win Natalie’s attention.
THREE
“Jamal, c’mon man! We’ve almost come back!” I yell from the on-deck circle.
My teammates from the bench follow my encouragement. The lights above are bright at Arcadia Ballpark. Two of my teammates stand on bases and nine teenage boys occupy the diamond, a few among them with stone cold stares, as if we’re playing in the majors. The third basemen looks bored, but then his coach yells at him from the sideline.
Tonight is not a kid’s game. It’s war. The play-offs. And the hard-fought season is down to this final inning. Winner advances. Loser stays home.
The Braves, our opposition, got a huge lead in the first inning, shelling the pitcher for seven runs on eleven hits. But our Cubs fans kept the faith. A series of clutch hitting in the fifth and well-timed walks brought the deficit down to two runs. The one hundred fifty in attendance haven’t sat down for at least ten minutes.
The count is two and two. Jamal Laake stands in the batter’s box. The pitch, and the ball is hit to right field, a line drive over second base. One run scores; the tying run is held up at third. The ball is like a guided missile from the outfield to the pitcher. Jamal represents the winning run on first base.
I step into the batter’s box, with a sense of calm, as if the crowd isn’t there. The weight of the bat lightens in my hands and my grip tightens to counter sweat. The catcher starts talking to me, to make a distraction.
The ninth batter, the last of our lineup. My teammates cheer, but their thoughts consume me: Don’t strike out again. Don’t swing; hope for a walk. Why does the weak link on the team have to be at bat now? Can we get a pinch hitter?
Typically, I swing at the first pitch and ground out. Or miss entirely and try again at the next one. After my first at bat, the pitcher figures I’ll swing at anything and avoids throwing a strike.
The pitch will be outside; don’t swing.
I step away from the box and look around. I want to believe, to trust in this voice. Does she suddenly care if my team wins? My zero-for-three performance batting tonight does nothing for that idea—so why the sudden help? The umpire calls out to me and the look on his face does not show patience.
My adversary stands on the mound, wearing a smirk.
He sees an easy out. A weakling.
I feel a strange confidence and return to the batter’s box. The pitch whizzes past me outside the plate by three inches. Ball one. My teammates cheer.
How does Christel know where the pitch will be? I will swing with all I have at the next one.
She speaks this time, in lieu of imputing, soft and subtle. “High and inside; keep the bat on your shoulder.”
My hands twist on the bat, an anxious sweat. The ball in the pitcher’s hand and the grip of his fingers is clear to me, though it’s out of view at the small of his back. He is trying to intimidate me by lingering and staring.
How can I see the ball behind his back?
The pitch is high and inside, missing the plate. Ball two. Fans stomp their feet on the metal bleachers. My teammates scream and pound against the chain-link fence between our bench and the field.
Over the plate, slightly low and away. Let it go.
But I want to swing. The pitch will probably be called a strike and I hate getting behind in a count. This comes down to faith—or is it trust?
The pitch comes, and Christel is correct: strike one called. The opposing side cheers and I’m reminded they are there. The fans shout advice and encouragement. The fence continues to rattle from excited feet and hands. The air seems to still, as if the world around me is holding its breath for the next
pitch from the five-foot lanky blond kid.
Inside and low; let it pass.
Okay, so do I get to swing at one of these?
The pitch is low and inside. Ball three. The umpire announces the count at three and one and the crowd noise rises. The pitcher stares at me like a lion stalking prey before the kill. He rolls the ball in his hand, and I know he is getting nervous, mulling over the signals on display. His mouth chews slowly, a wad of gum he wishes were tobacco. He nods and takes position to throw. This pitch must be a strike.
Fastball, over the middle of the plate. When his arm is extended, start your swing.
My left foot lifts and I step into the pitch and in this moment it’s as if I’m controlled by someone else—as if I’m a bystander watching myself perform. The crack of aluminum against the ball is poetic, a mythical sound that fantasies are made of. The ball flies over the second basemen’s glove, his body extended, reaching aimlessly in the air. It lands on the grass in the outfield. I pass first base with the wind at my back and turn for second. The screams from my bench are intense and spur me on, give strength unknown to my legs. My foot hits the corner of second base, the turn for third, but then my teammates mob me, as the game is over. The tying and the winning runs scored on the hit. My hit.
Three of the guys hoist me on their shoulders and carry me off the field, Jamal among them.
I survey the crowd for her face, which I cannot see. But I know Natalie is there. After what feels like forever, I see her smiling face. She catches up to me, Jamal at my side. Jamal looks at me and grins, his arm around my shoulders. He’s proud of your confidence.
Natalie looks excited. Giddy, even. Invite her for ice cream.
“Coming to Macally’s?” I say, and then wonder why I’m listening to the ghost. My team celebrates around me and fans are closing in.
Natalie smiles back, flattered by the invite. She glances at Mayra and Mike, who agree with the suggestion. I’m surprised to see Mike here, considering he’s not much for baseball, but he’s high on Mayra.
Discretion Page 2